


Fantastic Fix-Its and How To Write Them

by Whisper91



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Lives, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nifflers, Overprotective Theseus Scamander, Theseus saves the day, alternative ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:59:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: "Madam President,” Theseus says, in a tone that's carefully mild; the sort of congenial politeness that he reserves only for those rare occasions when he's well and truly pissed-off. "If it isn't too much trouble, I should like to know why Newt Scamander has been sentenced to death without a trial."(An alternative universe in which Bernadette remembers to fill out the appropriate paperwork prior to Newt's execution, Theseus Scamander gets rather cross about the whole sordid business and comes to his brother's aid, and everything somehow turns out for the better in the end.)





	1. When All Else Fails, Just Follow the Screaming

.

 

“We could’ve left the paperwork for later _,_ Bee,” her colleague gripes, flicking his wand to summon a thick wad of documents over to his desk. “It’s not fair to make ‘em wait around like this, we should’ve just taken ‘em straight to the Death Cell like Mr Graves asked-”

Bernadette snatches one of the documents out of the air and shoots Joseph a pointed look. “The _director_ ain’t the one who’ll get it in the neck if someone from the British Ministry comes lookin’ for their missing wizard. If we’re supposed to be executin’ these folks without a trial, I’m sure as hell gonna make sure it’s been put down on paper that those orders came from someone above our paygrade.”

She summons a faintly glowing document from a high-up shelf, scouring the dust from it with a flick of her wand. Joseph pauses, inked quill poised over his own paperwork, to frown at her.

“You’re really gonna fill out a Section 14 for the British guy?” he asks, his voice tinged with incredulity. “Bee, Graves said he’s one of Grindelwald’s followers. Do you honestly think the BIA are gonna care what we do to him?”

“I think I wanna keep my job,” Bernadette answers, putting quill to parchment.

Pale blue light ripples back and forth across the document as she writes; the moment she taps her wand against the parchment to mark it with the offical MACUSA seal, an exact replica of the execution order will be instantaneously transferred to the British Ministry’s International Affairs office in London, and be readily accessible to those with adequate clearance. It won’t allow the Ministry enough time to intervene, of course – by the time their legal teams have sought permission to look into Scamander’s criminal case, the sentence will have already been passed. But it means that Bernadette, if required to stand up in court and defend her actions, will be able to say with confidence that the Ministry was appropriately informed of the planned execution prior to Scamander’s death.

“There,” she says with satisfaction a few minutes later, and taps the parchment to seal it. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Joseph looks faintly relieved. “Finished?”

Bernadette nods as she stands, squaring her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

 

 

 

 

… … … … … … … … …

 

 

 

 

Theseus doubts he’ll ever learn to be content with life at the Ministry.

As he often bemoans to Knightly (perhaps the only Auror in the Ministry’s investigative network with the patience to share an office with Theseus), if he had _wanted_ a desk job, he would have applied to become a paper-pushing bureaucrat after graduating from Hogwarts.

“Eight years in the field,” he reiterates, twizzling his index finger to stir his tea in a rather agitated manner as the sugar bowl hastily coughs out a couple of lumps under his watchful eye. “And how do they thank me? With ruddy _paperwork._ This is Fawley’s doing, I know it is.”

Victor Knightly just smiles at him kindly, a tin of homemade biscuits emptying themselves onto a plate in the air above him as he blows on his own tea to cool it.

“If our delightful Minister had been permitted a say in the matter, neither one of us would have kept our badges after the war,” Victor points out, slipping a pair of Muggle spectacles (charmed to see through concealment spells, or so he claims) onto the bridge of his nose. “Thankfully, saner heads prevailed.”

Theseus grunts, glaring at the sugar bowl when it coughs out another cube; the charmed pot hurriedly grabs the handle of the teaspoon to fish the lump back out again.

“Can’t say I feel much like an Auror, stuck in here for weeks on end,” he comments, rescuing his teacup as the tiny milk jug comes scuttling over to add another splash. “Never thought I’d miss the smell of Knockturn Alley on a Friday night.”

“Oh, come now, Theseus,” the elder wizard cajoles. “You and I are on the front line in the search for Grindelwald. Every scrap of information from our overseas Aurors, every little secret, is fed through to this office; if a pattern emerges, we stand a better chance of identifying it from here. I know you like to get your boots muddy, old boy, but one simply can’t see the bigger picture out there in the field.”

Theseus sighs, running his fingers through his hair. It’s begun to curl a little at the ends, but he doubts he’ll let it grow any longer – he hasn’t worn it out since before the war.

“I’m well aware of that. But it’s been _months,_ Victor, and all we’ve come across is irrelevant speculation and false alarms.”

“Which is far better than the alternative,” Knightly concludes, his tone just a tad firmer, and Theseus is immediately reminded of the no-nonsense war commander Victor had once been, back in greyer days. “You speak as though you’d rather he were here in London, uprooting Air-raid shelters and frightening Muggles.”

The younger Auror pulls a face into his teacup. “You know I don’t mean it like that, Sir. I’d just rather we had something a little more concrete than whispers and shadows.”

“Mm. If wishes were horses, lad.” A laden china plate lands with a quiet thud in the middle of the Norwegian map that’s busy unfolding itself across Scamander’s desk. “Now stop sulking and have a biscuit, there’s a chap.”

With another reluctant sigh, and a slight upwards twitch of his lips, Theseus obliges him.

He almost loses his tea a few moments later ( _almost_ – the teacup has been charmed to prevent such spillages, an early Christmas present from Victor after the wizard grew tired of scouring tea-stains from important documents), when the door bangs open suddenly to admit one of the department’s newest Aurors-in-training.

“Good heavens, Bellamy!” Victor scolds, clutching a hand to his chest, although Theseus very much doubts the Auror is truly startled (the explosive cacophony of Muggle weapons-fire in the heat of battle never once made him blink). “Must you dash about so?”

“I, I’m sorry, Mr Knightly,” the lad stutters, pink-cheeked and out of breath and shifting fretfully from foot to foot – it becomes immediately apparent to both Aurors that his current state of urgency isn’t merely an offshoot of youthful exuberance.

“What is it, lad?” Knightly asks, sobering quickly. “News from Germany?”

Shaking his head, Bellamy quickly holds out a sheet of parchment towards them. “I’ve been shadowing Jenkins in the International Affairs office, Sir. A Section 14 was transferred through to us only moments ago from MACUSA headquarters. It’s-”

Victor, having crossed the office in a few swift strides, plucks the document from the young apprentice’s fingers.

“It’s for Mr Scamander, Sir,” Bellamy finishes uneasily.

“For me?” Theseus echoes, setting his tea to one side as he moves to join Knightly near the door. He pauses, midstep, at the unsettling look on his colleague’s face; the man’s dark eyebrows are drawn together in a darkening frown. It’s been well over a year since Theseus last saw the man look so _serious._

A queer, tingling uneasiness trickles down his spine. “Sir?”

Victor lowers the parchment, his face grim. “It’s your brother, Theseus. They’ve sentenced him to death.”

With a cold, leaden sort of weight sinking to the pit of his stomach, Theseus takes a stumbling step back, the room suddenly too hot and the air too close, an invisible band clenching around his lungs.

Oh stars, _Newt._ His younger brother’s gotten himself into sticky situations before (both literally and metaphorically speaking), but to run afoul of MACUSA to such an extent? Theseus can’t begin to fathom it – Newt has absolutely no regard whatsoever for his own safety (especially when it comes to those creatures of his), but he’s also one of the most kind-hearted and selfless beings to ever have graced the wizarding world, and the notion of him doing anything reprehensible enough to earn himself a death sentence…well, it’s downright _preposterous_.

He needs to go. He needs to find Newt, he needs to put a _stop_ to this nonsense, he-

A flash of light goes darting past him, and then he’s being efficiently manhandled into his Auror coat, the folded document shoved hurriedly into his pocket.

“Theseus,” Victor snaps, not for the first time, giving him a rough shake. “Your brother’s being held at MACUSA headquarters in New York. You’ll have little time to intervene before the sentence is carried out; I’ll do what I can to delay proceedings from here.”

“Portkey,” Theseus manages, his breathing shallow and uneven. “I need a portkey.”

Victor ushers him towards the nearby fireplace and the newly-redesigned internal Floo network.

“I’ve already sent word ahead to the transportation department,” the Auror tells him, the tip of his wand still glowing a pale, misty white in lieu of his absent patronus. “The portkey office will be expecting you. I’ll let Henry know what’s happened – he may no longer be on the Wizengamot, but your brother’s going to need reliable legal representation and Potter’s your best bet.”

Rapidly recovering his wits as the adrenaline starts to kick in, Theseus nods, right hand gripping his wand tightly as he grabs a handful of Floo powder from the jar.

“Portkey office!” he calls, in a ragged voice that doesn’t sound anything like his own.

The faux-fire surges in a pillar of swirling green flames, and Theseus is swallowed up within seconds.

 

 

 

 

… … … … … … … … … … … … …

 

 

 

 

“Look, I’m sorry, pal,” the handsome but woefully unhelpful Auror tells him. “Like I said, that kind of information has restricted public access. You’re going to need to fill out a request form and submit it to-”

Pulling his identification badge from the inner pocket of his coat, Theseus shows it to the man, keeping one finger carefully obscuring his title.

“I’m an Auror with the Ministry’s department of investigation,” he supplies (deliberately omitting his name, because announcing himself as Newt’s brother won’t help either of them). “We received word that a British wizard may have been wrongly imprisoned and improperly sentenced. If you could direct me towards the department responsible for this decision, I’d be very much obliged.”

The younger Auror’s gaze flitters between the badge and Theseus’ face, some of his easy confidence waning. “I…I don’t think I’m authorised to tell you that either, Sir. I could speak to Mr Graves, but-”

“Mr Graves, yes, an excellent idea,” Theseus agrees, feeling a ray of hope bloom. Given what he knows of the man, he’s certain Percival will put an end to this nonsense, and likely give a jolly good tongue-lashing to the sorry blighter who’s responsible for this mess. “He’ll do just fine.”

The younger man cringes visibly. “I’m afraid he just stepped out. If you’d care to take a seat, I’m sure he’ll be back sometime this afternoon.”

“Sometime this afternoon?” Hands bracing against the edge of the desk, Theseus leans over far enough that the man has to scoot his chair back to avoid a collision. “Merlin’s beard, do you think this is a social visit? A man’s life is at stake here! Now, are you going to give me the information I require, or-”

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

Theseus casts a sideways glance at the wizard who’d interrupted him, and immediately draws himself up to his full height when he identifies the woman standing to the right of him as the chief of MACUSA herself, President Piquery.

“There is, as a matter of fact,” he answers, his tone controlled once more. He flashes his badge, again carefully obscuring his name from sight. “Theseus. I work as an Auror for the Ministry of Magic’s investigative department.”

Then, completely ignoring the wizard who’d first addressed him, he turns his attention to Piquery herself.

"Madam President,” Theseus says, in a tone that's carefully mild; the sort of congenial politeness that he reserves only for those rare occasions when he's well and truly pissed-off. "If it isn't too much trouble, I should like to know why Newt Scamander has been inappropriately detained and sentenced."

The witch merely arches an eyebrow dubiously at him, calm as you please. “Scamander?”

“The wizard with the magical case, Ma’am,” supplies one of the wizards flanking her.

“Ah yes, of course.” Piquory’s mouth turns down a little sourly at the recollection, but her tone remains professional. “Mr Scamander was detained on suspicion of illegally harbouring magical creatures and threatening the Statute of Secrecy. His trial has yet to be scheduled, but when a date has been set, you have my word that your department will be informed and a representative invited to attend.”

“That won’t be a lot of use to him post-mortem, will it?” Theseus critiques. At Piquery’s blank look, he pulls the folded document from his coat pocket and thrusts it at her. “Someone has already sentenced him to death, Madam President. _Without_ a trial. I don’t know what they call it over here, but back in England we’d call it _murder._ ”

She examines the parchment closely for a brief moment, then passes it sideways to one of the wizards flanking her.

“A clerical mistake, I’m certain,” she reassures him smoothly, with the ease of someone who’s undoubtedly covered up more than her fair share of scandals over the years. “We’ll look into it right away. Mr…?”

Thankfully, Theseus is saved from needing to reveal his last name by the sudden blare of a shrill, ringing bell. The wizards on either side of Piquery immediately have their wands out, shepherding her hastily over to a nearby marble column, where a framed portrait swallows them all before vanishing altogether.

Cursing under his breath, no closer to finding Newt now than he had been ten minutes ago, Theseus turns back towards the young man who’s still seated behind the desk.

“What the devil is going on?” he demands, watching as half a dozen Aurors go running down the central flight of stairs, wands held aloft.  “Are we under attack?”

“A containment breach, Sir,” the younger man replies distractedly, studying a set of moving blueprints that are unfolding in front of him. “Not to worry, I’m certain we’ll soon have the criminal safely back in custody.” He gestures vaguely towards the row of benches near the far wall. “If you’d like to take a seat over there, I’m sure one of the directors will be with you momentarily.”

“Thank you,” Theseus returns politely, and immediately walks in the opposite direction, heading down the central staircase.

An alarm means trouble. And where there’s trouble, there’s usually a Scamander.

 

 

 

 

… … … … … … … … …

 

 

 

 

“Leave his brains, come on!” Newt calls, and whistles sharply to summon the creature back to him.

Esther gives a croaking chirp of disappointment at her spoiled dinner, but obediently takes flight again, sailing between the stone pillars and curling herself back up in her cocoon in time for Newt to catch her.

“What is that thing?” Tina asks breathlessly, still gripping onto Newt’s hand hard enough to make his fingers numb.

Tucking Esther safely back inside the sleeve of his coat, Newt keeps running towards the stairwell up ahead. “A swooping evil.”

“Well I _love_ it,” the Auror laughs, and Newt grins, both of them caught up in that thrilling rush of relief and adrenaline that tends to come after successfully foiling one’s own execution.

They turn the corner into another vast hallway full of identical stone pillars with no visible exit (Newt can’t for the life of him fathom their purpose, other than to be a hindrance to those with a bad memory for directions). Tina, now one step ahead of him, drags Newt this way and that as she weaves between the pillars in a seemingly random manner – but then they make a sharp right turn, and another stairwell suddenly appears twenty metres ahead of them.

“We can’t apparate until we make it past the crest in the entrance hall,” she tells him as they hurry towards it. “I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas that might help us get past fifty or so MACUSA employees?”

Newt doesn’t even have time to wrack his brains for a solution, because Queenie suddenly emerges from behind a row of pillars to the left of them, dragging a breathless Jacob by one hand and clutching his briefcase in the other. Tina makes a noise of surprise, and Newt’s so relieved to see his suitcase (and Jacob) whole and unharmed that he can’t say anything at all. Queenie flashes a bright smile at them both, then holds out the suitcase quickly.

“Get in.”

There’s a bit of a scramble as Newt takes it from her and fumbles with the clasps, but then he’s ushering Tina and Jacob down the ladder ahead of him, shifting from foot to foot nervously until the Muggle’s managed to squeeze himself inside.

He’s barely made it halfway down the ladder himself, his head and shoulders still sticking up out of the case, when he hears footsteps hurrying towards them from the nearby stairwell. Heart in his throat, he glances over his shoulder, pulling his (pilfered) wand from his sleeve with a spell on the tip of his tongue, ready to fight if he needs to – but the curse dies on his lips at the sight of a familiar worried frown.

“Theseus!”

His brother’s gaze locks onto him in an instant, and the elder Scamander quickens his pace to a flat-out sprint.

“Get inside,” Theseus urges, skidding to a halt beside the case. “Hurry, they aren’t far behind me.” He glances up towards Queenie, but she sends him another bright smile before he can speak.

“I got you, Mr Scamander,” she reassures. “Ain’t the first time I’ve smuggled a little somethin’ outta headquarters.”

“Queenie!” Tina hisses from the bottom of the ladder, aggrieved, but Theseus is already nodding, stepping into the suitcase after Newt.

With a flick of his borrowed wand, the shed expands by a few extra metres to more comfortably accommodate the four of them, and Newt waves a hand at the overhead lamp for better illumination as the suitcase is closed with a quiet thud.

“You sure she’ll be alright?” Jacob asks worriedly, glancing up towards the ceiling. “Those magical cops o’ yours ain’t exactly the friendly type, you know?”

“She’ll be fine,” Tina reassures, but her tone is distracted and she eyes Theseus with open intrigue as he reaches the bottom of the ladder and turns to face them. “Newt, who’s this?”

Before he can answer, Theseus strides forward and seizes Newt in fierce embrace that knocks the wind from him entirely.

“Of all the places to visit on your travels, little brother,” the elder Scamander mutters, hand settling on the back of Newt’s neck to squeeze reassuringly. “You just _had_ to come to New York, didn’t you? You know how the Yanks feel about magical beasts. What was wrong with dragon-taming in Norway? You were perfectly safe there.”

“I’ve already been to Norway,” Newt protests, but even to his own ears the argument sounds rather pathetic. He feels some of the tension leave him as he relaxes into his brother’s secure hold, hands fisting the back of the man’s dark coat. “And I wanted an Appaloosa Puffskein for my birthday.”

Theseus sighs, but it’s a quiet, fond thing. “You and your ruddy puffskeins.” He drops a kiss against Newt’s hair, squeezes him tighter for a moment, then steps back to inspect him with a searching glance. “Did they hurt you?”

Smiling a little (because his brother is here now, and everything is going to be alright, he’s certain of it), Newt shakes his head. “I’m fine. Well, I’m _alive_ , which I have to admit is an unexpected turn of events. Those MACUSA executioners certainly don’t beat about the bush.”

“Wait, wait,” Jacob interjects, an expression of concern and disbelief dawning. “Are you sayin’ they was gonna _execute_ you? The hell for?”

“Treason,” Tina answers from where she’s perched on the bottom step of the ladder, knees tucked up to her chest, looking like her near-death experience is finally starting to sink in. “Based on…on nothing more than circumstantial evidence and _suspicion._ Mr Graves wouldn’t even give us a fair trial, he just ordered them to-”

She breaks off, her voice choked and her eyes damp. Jacob moves to crouch down beside the ladder, settling a comforting arm around her, and a moment later the young Auror is crying into his shoulder. Newt takes a step towards them, but Theseus puts a hand on his arm to stop him, a peculiar expression on his face.

“Graves?” he repeats quietly, in a low, grim tone that Newt doesn’t think he’s heard since their father passed away. “Percival Graves? Director of MACUSA’s major investigations department?”

Newt nods, a crease in his brow as he regards his brother curiously. “He accused me of smuggling a live Obscurus into the country – claimed I was one of Grinelwald’s followers, here to expose the wizarding world and provoke a war.”

“An Obscurus,” Theseus echoes, his frown deepening as he grips his brother’s shoulder. “Newt…”

“It wasn’t my doing,” Newt insists, meeting his brother’s gaze. “I wasn’t even aware of the scale of the attacks until I was shown the evidence. There was a body – a Muggle victim murdered last night – and the _marks,_ Theseus, they left absolutely no room for debate, but President Piquery wouldn’t believe me when I told her there was an Obscurial here in New York. She blamed it on my creatures, as though they could possibly cause that sort of damage, _really,_ even an Erumpant couldn’t tear up a street like that without witnesses-”

“Newt,” Theseus interrupts patiently, tapping him beneath the chin to refocus his ramblings. “The Obscurus?”

“Yes. Yes, well, Graves confiscated my case, you see.” Newt fidgets, his eyes downcast. “The girl from Sudan, the one I told you about - I couldn’t save her, but I bubbled her Obscurus before it could fade, and I’ve been studying it in my spare time. When Mr Graves found it, he… I _tried_ to tell him it was harmless, that it had no power with its vessel destroyed, but he wouldn’t listen. As far as he was concerned, it was all my doing – and Tina received the same sentence just for offering me a place to stay.”

“He’s been pretty hard on me, since the incident last month,” the female Auror adds, her voice a little hoarse as she uses the handkerchief Jacob offers her to dab at her damp cheeks. “But I never thought he was capable of being so heartless.”

Theseus drops his hand from Newt’s shoulder and wanders over to peer out through the shed’s small window towards the grazing Graphorns in the grassy field beyond, his shoulders tense as he rests his hands on the tabletop.

“The Percival Graves I know would never pass the death sentence without a trial,” he tells them after a minute or two of silence. “And certainly not without substantial evidence. I can’t say I know what’s going on here, but something about this doesn’t add up.”

After a beat, Tina finishes drying her eyes and stands, squaring her shoulders and crossing over to Theseus.

“We were never properly introduced,” she says, offering her hand. “Tina Goldstein, former MACUSA Auror, Major Investigations department.”

The wizard shakes her hand with an easy smile. “Theseus Scamander. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Goldstein.”

“And I’m Jacob,” Kowalski offers as an afterthought, raising a hand in an awkward wave as he uses the other to cradle the Niffler against his chest, whose bulging pouch suggests that Newt had failed to confiscate a portion of the little bugger’s loot. “Uh, non-magical human being here.”

“Oh, you’re a Muggle!” Theseus concludes with apparent delight, crossing over to clap Jacob on the shoulder companionably. “My brother certainly knows how to pick them. Welcome to the wizarding world, old chap.”

“Uh, thank you,” Jacob stutters, but seems genuinely pleased by the warm reception. “It’s, uh, a real pleasure to be here.”

The suitcase opens above them – a small rectangular skylight at the top of the ladder – and Queenie’s smiling face appears.

“I got us outta there,” she reassures. “Come on up, the coast is clear.”

Newt takes a few hurried steps forward and snatches his Niffler up before the blighter can make a run for it.

“Oh no you don’t, you little terror,” he scolds, stepping out of the shed and marching through his menagerie towards the creature’s habitat. “You’ve caused more than enough trouble already, thank you. Go on, in you go.”

When the wriggling tyke spies its shiny nest, it stops trying to hide itself inside Newt’s coat and instead eagerly scampers back into its hoard, plopping back to sit on a pile of coins and reaching inside its pouch to withdraw the loot from its most recent adventures.

“That ought to keep you occupied for the time being,” Newt murmurs, with a satisfied sort of fondness, and reaches out to stroke a finger over the creature’s soft fur before withdrawing.

He almost runs smack into his brother when he turns, but Theseus catches him by the upper arms before they can collide, a slight smile curling at one corner of his mouth. Then he dips his head towards the spherical nest hanging from a tree nearby.

“Where’s Dougal?”

Newt deflates a bit at that, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Missing.”

At his brother’s expectant look, he winces.

“There was…an incident,” he confesses. “Involving Jacob and a second suitcase. He got mine by mistake, and when he opened it…well. It’s taken a little while to track everyone down, and you know how hard it was to find Dougal the first time around.”

“Mm,” Theseus agrees, and pats his back gently. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Newt’s lips twitch upwards. “We?”

“We,” the elder Scamander confirms, and gives him a jovial shove towards the shed that almost sends Newt flying. “Come on. Let’s round up the troops and see if we can’t figure out a way to get your criminal record expunged.”

 

.

 


	2. Calm Before The Storm

.

 

“Invisible?”

Theseus fights a smile at the note of incredulity in Tina Goldstein’s voice. That had been his reaction too, the first time Dougal had managed to escape from the suitcase during one of Newt’s infrequent home visits. It had taken the two of them almost nine hours to find him, searching every inch of their family estate and its surrounding grounds (the borders of which, thankfully, had been extensively warded decades earlier to prevent their mother’s Hippogriffs from wandering too far).

In the end, Dougal had actually been the one to find _them,_ when Newt - gangly and uncoordinated from birth, bless him – had tripped over the leg of a nearby chaise and toppled into a display cabinet, putting his hand through the glass and severing several important blood vessels in the process. While Theseus had worked quickly to remove the shards and stop the bleeding, the wallpaper a few feet away had shifted, Dougal reappearing out of thin air with a worried sort of coo. The gentle-natured Demiguise had draped itself over Newt’s back like a rucksack, stroking the young wizards hair in a comforting sort of manner while the youth had tried (and abysmally failed) to scold him for having run off in the first place.

Newt is far too soft for his own good, really. Merlin knows he ought to be a tad firmer with his young Niffler in particular; the cheeky blighter still hasn’t returned the three pocket watches he’s stolen from Theseus over the past twelve months.

“Yes, well…” Newt fidgets endearingly, glancing down at his hands as he worries a bit of skin with his thumbnail. “Most of the time. He does, um…”

Tina’s still staring at him, and the magizoologist falls silent, cheeks tinging a faint pink in the pale light of the setting sun.

“How on earth do you catch something-”

“With immense difficulty,” Newt answers, with a wincing sort of smile as he deliberately shoves his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting further.

“Oh,” Goldstein acknowledges, with a quiet sort of laugh that seems to ease the tension that’s gathered in Newt’s shoulders.

Theseus decides he likes the girl immensely. His brother, sweet-natured and polite though he may be, doesn’t have an awful lot of friends – due, in part, to his reluctance to engage with other human beings unless forced to by circumstance.

 _“People are just so terribly complicated,”_ Newt had admitted to him many years ago, when Theseus had found him hiding out in the Hippogriff stables in an effort to escape their mother’s annual Christmas party. _“They say one thing but mean another, and everyone’s so painfully cordial - especially Mother, and I know for a fact she jolly well despises at least half of the guests this year.”_

Theseus had smiled at him in sympathy as he lowered himself onto the bench beside the youth. _“I suppose your beasts are a little easier to read?”_

Nodding, his brother had leaned against him with a tired sigh. _“At least I know for certain when they’re upset with me. Creatures don’t hide how they feel, and they…I can trust my instincts around them.”_

Back then, the dissolution of Newt’s relationship with Leta Lestrange had still been a recent and terribly painful memory, and what little self-confidence his brother had developed over those long years of friendship had quickly dissipated in the following months as he turned his attention away from the wizarding population and grew increasingly more captivated by rare and dangerous creatures.

There had been a close acquaintance or two who’d flitted in and out of Newt’s life after that, folk who’d met the lad during the war and had admired his skill as a dragon-tamer, but Theseus can’t recollect anyone significant upon whom his brother might have bestowed the term ‘friend’.

He doesn’t know an awful lot about the Goldstein sisters, but they certainly seem the decent sort; theirs will be a friendship that Newt will benefit from, Theseus is sure of it.

“Gnarlak,” Tina suddenly announces, and receives blank stares from both Scamanders.

“Excuse me?”

Tina steps forward to grip the younger wizard’s blue sleeve. “ _Gnarlak._ He was an informant of mine when I was an Auror; he used to trade in magical creatures on the side.”

Theseus winces at the way Newt’s posture subtly stiffens at the information. There are far too many on-the-side ‘traders’ who dabble with black market goods, and unfortunately his brother’s worked in the field long enough to have met many of them in person; Theseus himself has seen the sort of conditions in which their ‘goods’ are often kept.

He had been there when Newt had rescued poor Gladys, just over a year ago – the Nundu kit had been close to death after being snatched from her mother at so young an age. His brother had spent days on end in the newly-charmed suitcase, carefully nursing the creature back to health, bottle-feeding the kit like a babe until its fur had grown back and its bones were no longer quite so prominent.

His brother fidgets again, likely less of a nervous habit and more a conscious effort to keep his temper in check, his tone deceptively mild as he enquires:

“He wouldn’t happen to have an interest in pawprints, would he?”

Tina smiles wryly. “He’s interested in anything he can sell.”

“Excellent.” Theseus stands from his perch on the lip of the rooftop, moving over to clap Newt on the shoulder and jar him out of whatever memory is currently carving a groove in his brow. “Have a think, poppet; there must be something in that case of yours that’ll catch his eye.”

Newt blinks, glancing down at the suitcase by his feet. “Well. I suppose there’s my research…”

“What about one of those little insects?” Tina asks, and holds her thumb and forefinger a few inches apart to illustrate its size. “The blue ones with the stingers?”

The magizoologist looks taken aback. “I…I’m sorry, are you suggesting that I offer him one of my creatures?” He shakes his head, the crease in his brow deepening. “No. Absolutely not. I’ll have no part in any _trade-”_

“Newt,” Theseus interjects softly, a hand settling between his brother’s shoulders. “It won’t come to that, pet. The bribe we offer doesn’t have to be a _living_ creature.” Goldstein’s already looking decidedly guilty for having hinted at it in the first place. “Merely a sample of something that might be worth a few coins on the market. If I’m not mistaken, you had a rather splendid collection of rare venoms when you last visited England, did you not?”

The younger wizard glances down at his case again, the tension in his frame easing. “I suppose,” he muses quietly. “I have a few vials of Swampdigger slime that might be of interest. It’s almost impossible to get hold of nowadays.”

“And Gnarlak will know it’s valuable?” Tina hedges tentatively.

Newt nods, then shrugs. “Well, it isn’t actually beneficial in any way,” he admits. “Swampdiggers are terribly rare, you see, so nobody’s been able to study a live specimen in decades. But it’s always been rumoured that they excrete a slime which, when consumed, makes one strongly susceptible to another’s suggestions in a manner similar to the Imperius curse. Utter poppycock, I’m afraid – I’ve been able to study the substance extensively over the past few months, and it’s nothing more than a mild aphrodisiac.”

Theseus tilts his head a little to one side. “I take it you haven’t shared this knowledge with the rest of the wizarding world?”

“Not yet, no.” His younger brother smiles, a barely-there quirk of his lips, and Theseus’ eyes twinkle as he mirrors the expression. Newt bends down to open the suitcase quickly. “I’ll fetch some up, it won’t take a moment.”

Tina peers down the ladder after him, then glances up at Theseus dubiously. “Swampdigger slime,” she hedges. “That’s a legal substance, right?”

Theseus feels himself wince a little. “It’s probably best not to think about it, my dear.”

“Ah.” She slips her hands into her coat pockets, shoulders hunching a little, probably feeling a little uncomfortable (as Theseus would once have been, in his younger years) with the idea of trading illegal goods for information.

Theseus, however, is no stranger to blagging his way through trade situations with seedy individuals. And he’s developed a knack for subterfuge, too – policing the wizarding criminal underworld (especially in London) had always required a certain level of skill when it came to assuming fake identities. A quick glamour charm and a hint of an accent, and he’d been able to slip in and out of Knockturn Alley for years without raising suspicion. It’s been quite a while since he last had reason to adopt one of his old undercover personas, but he’s rather looking forward to airing out the old moustache again, so to speak.

Queenie comes up behind her sister, smiling knowingly when she catches Theseus’ eye.

“You’re good at disguises huh, Mr Scamander? Guess that’s one thing we have in common.”

She points her wand towards her own clothes, and in the blink of an eye she’s wearing an evening dress, a silvery shimmering thing that must be the fashion in America nowadays. Her high-heeled shoes seem a tad impractical, though; what if apparating isn’t an option and they have to make a quick exit?

“And don’t worry,” Queenie adds, as she charms her locket into a string of pearls. “I can take care of myself just fine.”

Theseus smiles, his chin itching something fierce as a neat, trimmed beard grows there with a flick of his wand to match his new moustache. “Duly noted, Ms. Goldstein. I take it you know the way?”

“Wait,” Tina says, as Theseus quickly transfigures his Auror coat and business suit into more formal attire. “We should talk about this first-”

“Mr Scamander’s already got the whole thing planned out, Teeny,” Queenie reassures, patting her sister’s arm distractedly as she adds the finishing touches to her outfit, swirling her wand to fix her hair and make her stud earrings sparkle with diamonds. “You and Newt need to stay here with the case.”

“What?” Tina glances between Queenie and Theseus with a growing frown. “No, I need to go with you. I’m the one who knows Gnarlak-”

“Precisely.” Theseus sends her an apologetic sort of smile, holding his hand out as Newt emerges from the case with a small silver-and-crystal vial, its contents glowing a pale yellow. “He would recognise you instantly. And, as you say, he’s a MACUSA informant – one whose chief concern is the size of his own pocketbook, in all likelihood. In my experience, those sort of crooks aren’t known for their loyalty. It would be safer for all of us if you stayed here.”

“But-” Tina begins to protest, as Newt takes a step towards him.

“Be reasonable, Theseus,” his brother tries to argue.

The Auror raises a hand to cut them both off. “Like it or not, darlings, both of you are wanted criminals. Perhaps this Gnarlak fellow would sell you out; perhaps he wouldn’t. Either way, we simply cannot take that risk.”

Newt frowns at him for another moment, then promptly sits down on top of his closed suitcase with a quiet huff, arms folded across his chest, looking for all the world like the sullen seven-year-old Theseus had left behind on Platform 9¾ all those years ago when he’d first attended Hogwarts.

Tina still looks ready to argue the point further, but Theseus turns his attention towards the man lingering (and politely pretending not to listen) over near the pigeon coop.

“Mr Kowalski, would you care to join us?”

The charming Muggle looks surprised at the invitation. “Who, me?”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Queenie encourages gaily, holding her hand out towards him. “Bet you ain’t never seen a place like Gnarlak’s before. And besides, honey, you could use a drink after the day you’ve had.”

Jacob pauses, then shrugs. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Splendid!” Clapping his hands together, Theseus returns his attention to Tina, who’s moved to perch on the suitcase beside his brother, all but mirroring the wizard’s sulk. “Shan’t be long, my dears. Do try to stay out of trouble.”

Her reply (likely indecent, judging by Goldstein’s glower) is sadly lost to the thunderous _crack_ of their sudden apparation.

 

 

 

 

… … … … … … … … … …

 

 

 

 

“You found full clutch?” Theseus asks in surprise, peering down into the woven wicker nest at the tiny chirping hatchlings. “Merlin’s beard. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Newt gives his brother an apologetic wince. “They’re, uh, a relatively new development,” he replies, watching as Tina carefully sets down the final escapee, who slithers from her cupped palms to join its brothers and sisters. “They only finished hatching yesterday.”

It’s not exactly a lie – the Occamy chicks _are_ newly hatched, and they’ve only been in his possession for a short number of weeks. Still, he feels a twinge of guilt at the subtle reminder of how long it’s been since he last sent word to Theseus about his travels. It’s really rather poor form on his account, especially given how regularly his brother writes to him - weekly, and sometimes oftener (the family’s loyal owl, Baxter, is truly unrivalled in his talent for tracking Newt down, regardless of geographical location). But travelling to New York, a place his brother had made it perfectly clear was _out of bounds_ due to the current state-wide ban on magical creatures, had been somewhat of a sneaky detour on his part – a brief stop on his way to Arizona to return dear Frank to the wilderness.

Knowing that Theseus would disapprove of his quest to obtain an Appaloosa Puffskein, he’d intended to send a letter as soon as he was safely on his way across the country and out from under MACUSA’s radar. Things hadn’t quite gone according to plan, he’ll freely admit that, but it isn’t as though he’d intended to keep the truth to himself _indefinitely._ He might shut the rest of the world out (and gladly), but there are scarce few secrets that he keeps from his brother.

“I couldn’t save the mother,” he admits after a pause, moving to kneel in front of the nest, hand resting palm-downwards on the soft straw bedding, letting the chicks grow accustomed to the scent of him. “Poachers.”

Theseus’ hand settles on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “I’m sure you did your best, old boy.”

That’s certainly true. The adult Occamy had defended her nest to the end, and by the time Newt had fought off the poachers and made it into the mountainside cave, she’d already breathed her last, her enlarged body shrinking back down to its original size until her feathered head was small enough to be cradled in his lap. He’d buried her with all due care, and carried the eggs (thankfully unharmed, although their nest had been in tatters from a poorly-aimed _Bombarda_ ) down into his suitcase for safekeeping. He’d fretted for a short time that they might fail to hatch without their mother, and had even spent a few nights sleeping in the nest alongside the eggs, but the permanent warming charms he’d cast over the straw bedding seem to have done the trick.

Newt smiles a little as a particularly tactile Occamy tries to slither up his shirtsleeve. He really ought to get around to naming them all now that they’ve hatched, but there are so many other concerns on his mind, he doubts he could do them justice right now.

“Come on out, poppet,” he coaxes, curling the end of the tail around his fingers and gently tugging until the chick reluctantly wriggles back out again to sit draped over his hand and wrist, chirping and flapping its tiny wings in protest.

“Demanding little buggers, aren’t they?” Theseus chuckles.

Newt glances upwards to judge the position of the fake-sun in his charmed sky. “They’re probably getting peckish,” he muses. “I ought to-”

There’s a metallic _clang_ as a bucket full of cockroaches is set down heavily beside him, and the Occamy in Newt’s hand startles with a frightened little hiss, curling tighter around his wrist and coiling up ready to strike at the first sign of attack; but it’s only Dougal, the creature’s huge eyes fixed on the blue chick in interest as he nudges the bucket closer to Newt.

“Oh, thank you,” the wizard murmurs, pleasantly surprised, letting the Occamy chick slither from his hold and stroking a hand down Dougal’s back. “Good boy.”

The Demiguise gives a rumbling purr at the praise, shuffling closer to climb up into the wizard’s lap, one arm looping around Newt’s neck for balance as he peers down into the nest to coo at the hatchlings. Heartened by the contact, Newt rests his cheek against the beast’s soft fur and watches with a fond smile as Dougal begins feeding cockroaches to each chick in turn, purring all the while.

He’s missed this. Dougal has always been a tactile creature right from the day Newt rescued him from a poorly-kept private petting zoo, but in recent weeks he’s spent more time hibernating than he has awake, which had made for a rather lonely boat journey among other things. Newt hadn’t realised just how much he’d relied on the Demiguise for company until he was deprived of it, and when he’d discovered that Dougal had gone _missing,_ Merlin’s beard…

Newt glances around quickly to make sure they’re alone. Theseus has wandered off to talk to Tina over near the Graphorn enclosure, and Jacob’s busy admiring Albert’s treasure hoard with Queenie, the excited Niffler still busy pulling trinkets from his pouch to show the pair. Safely out of earshot, Newt turns his attention to the long-haired creature in his lap.

“You really mustn’t do that again,” he scolds quietly, giving Dougal a gentle squeeze. The Demiguise turns his head to peer at him again with those big, silvery eyes, but Newt fights hard to keep his tone as firm as he can manage it. “You gave me such a terrible fright, running off like that. What if I hadn’t been able to find you? New York is far too cold a place for a Demiguise to live, especially at this time of year. You _know_ it isn’t safe for you to leave the case unless I say so, darling.”

Dougal gives a low, purring trill that sounds rather like an apology, bumping his head against the wizard’s chin in a tender nuzzle. Newt feels his resolve waver, then crumble.

“Silly old thing,” he murmurs, embracing the creature gently. “Whatever would I do without you?”

The Demiguise leans back after a moment, cooing softly, and offers Newt a handful of cockroaches. Smiling a little, the wizard shakes his head and gently sets Dougal back down again.

“Not for me, thank you. Why don’t you let the Occamy have a few more? Not too many now.”

He pulls out his wand, just in case, and sends the bucket of insects back to one of his storage sheds, leaving only a few behind. It wouldn’t do to overfeed the chicks, after all, and Dougal (while a highly intelligent creature) would likely feel obliged to continue the task until the bucket was empty.

Newt doesn’t want another Mooncalves Incident – he’s never seen quite so much vomit in his _life,_ and isn’t keen on repeating the experience.  

 

 

 

 

… … … … … … … … … …

 

 

 

 

Theseus offers the girl a mint humbug. “How well do you know Percival Graves?”

Declining the offer with a slight shake of her head, Tina wraps her too-large coat a little further about herself, peering out across the grassy plains to where the Graphorn calves are chasing a Billywig in dizzying circles.

“I used to think he was a good man,” she says after a short pause, her tone low and despondent. “I only got assigned to his team a few months ago, but he seemed a decent sort of boss when I first met him. Hard as nails, sure, and a chronic workaholic, but he’d jump in front of a curse for you if he could. At least that was my first impression. Guess I must’ve misjudged him.”

Theseus leans his forearms on top of the charmed wooden fencepost, a faint crease in his brow. “The Percival Graves I know is the man you’ve just described to me in a nutshell,” he murmurs, and glances sideways at her. “Did something happen between the two of you? Something that might help to explain the sudden change in his behaviour towards you?”

The younger Auror drops her gaze. “There was…an _incident_ a couple of months back, involving a group of no-majes. I used magic in broad daylight, there were a lot of witnesses…caused quite the scandal, as you can imagine. The Director did what he could to keep me from losing my job, but Piquery overruled his decision and had me demoted to the wand-permit office.” She sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear, a troubled look darkening her handsome features. “He was kind to me at first; he even promised to submit an appeal to Piquery once things had settled down. But then the attacks started, and his whole department was busy trying to uncover who or what was responsible, and I guess the stress started getting to him. He hardly talked to me at all after that, not until-”

Theseus sees her throat move as she swallows, and feels an ache of pity in his chest. The poor girl’s been through a terrible ordeal, and here he is interrogating her about it all.

“Percival and I have been friends since before the war,” he admits after a beat, and Tina glances up at him in surprise. “We worked together on a case many years ago, tracking down a fugitive who’d escaped MACUSA custody and fled to England. He was a good sport, if a little serious at times, but he’d go above and beyond the call of duty to help you, if he could. We’ve been conversing on a bi-monthly basis ever since. I received a letter from him only a few weeks ago, as a matter of fact; he spoke of the attacks, and of his growing concern for the Statute of Secrecy – neither of us are keen on facing another war quite so soon after the last one. Nothing he said seemed out of the ordinary, which means he was still of a sound mind when he wrote to me.”

Tina peers up at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Graves might appear a tad stern at times, and Merlin knows it couldn’t hurt him to smile a little more often,” Theseus answers seriously, “but you’d be hard-pressed to find a more kind-hearted fellow. During the war, we both saw far too much death – boys and men alike struck down carelessly where they stood. When we returned, it was with a shared abhorrence for the needless loss of life. Percy has always _hated_ the notion of sentencing a wizard to death, unless there is no other feasible option. To accuse you of treason and pass judgement without a trial…”

Theseus falls silent, and shakes his head, heaving a weary sigh. He’s had time to think things through properly since his trip to MACUSA, and the conclusions that he’s come to aren’t pleasant ones.

“The Percival Graves I spoke to last month would never in his right mind go above the law like that,” he tells her grimly. “So logically, there are only three probable explanations. The first is that he’s _not_ in his right mind, and is therefore in no fit state to hold a position of power. The second is that he’s acting under the influence of another, either by magic or through blackmail, although the latter seems less likely given how ruddy stubborn the bastard can be. And the third possibility is that the man who sentenced you to death this afternoon _wasn’t_ Percival Graves.”

Tina’s eyes widen fractionally. “You really think that’s possible?”

“The use of the death sentence without sufficient evidence is _murder_ , Ms Goldstein,” Theseus reminds her. “Regardless of circumstance, Graves would never willingly end the life of another.”

The younger Auror braces her hands against the fencepost as her eyes drift towards the playing Graphorns again. “So we need to find a way to convince Madam Piquery that Graves is a dangerous man,” she decides, determinedly. “Question is, how do we go about doing that without getting ourselves arrested again?”

“We call for assistance,” the British wizard answers simply. At Tina’s questioning glance, his lips twitch. “I have one or two colleagues across the pond who’ll be keen to lend a hand if it means escaping the office for a few hours. I’ll find a remote floo-call centre and inform them of everything that has transpired; at least if there’s a few of us, we might be able to convince the President that this is an official Ministry investigation, and she may feel more inclined to listen to our concerns.”

“And pigs might fly,” Tina mutters. “I’m afraid Piquery isn’t known for being the most-”

Suddenly, the sky overhead darkens to an overcast grey, and their attention is drawn towards Frank’s nearby enclosure as lightning flashes and thunder booms above his artificial habitat, the Thunderbird’s wings outstretched in flight as he leaps from his perch to hover far above them, screeching out an echoing cry.

“Danger,” Newt says, appearing suddenly and without warning at Theseus’ elbow, peering up at the agitated beast. “He senses danger.”

“You sure he ain’t just hungry?” Jacob asks hopefully.

Theseus pulls his wand from his shirtsleeve and turns towards the exit. “Well,” he says, with a forced enthusiasm that he doesn’t truly feel. “Only one way to find out, I suppose.”

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm so excited that so many of you are interested in this story, and I really appreciate your support. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I'd love to know your thoughts, if you could spare a minute or two to leave a review. :)
> 
> Busy bee for the next couple of weeks, but I've got some holiday hours coming up soon, so I'm hoping to write more during my free time. Until then, take care!  
> xxx


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